The Personal Assistant

“That was good. I like what you did there—to make me come.” He bent down, messed around in the pockets of the trousers he’d dropped on the floor below the bed, and came up with a pack of cigarettes and some matches. He lit up, sitting there, legs spread and elbows on knees, and inhaled and exhaled a couple of times. My instinct was to make a comment about the cancer he was exhaling into the air in my place with that smoke, but I didn’t say anything. It all went with the package that made me melt to him.

He’d left me there on the ground Saturday morning, just two days earlier, zipping up his shorts and padding out onto the field to retrieve Sid, who had also finished breeding Starbright. Hadn’t said a thing. He’d taken hold of me and fucked me as naturally as Sid had mounted Starbright—just like it was the most natural thing to do. No emotional entanglements at all. Knowing that I wanted him and would just hold steady on all fours while he breeded me too.

I sat up half dazed, but well fucked, and watched him go to the parking lot, get into a black Escalade that had been parked there when I drove in in my Camarro, and peel out of the park. I thought that would be the last I’d see of him, him fulfilling my idea of a tough-guy one-night stand.

The first thing I’d done when I got home was to go online trying to find the pedigree of his poodle. It hadn’t been that zany that I’d let him fuck me in the park. I had practically rolled over and begged for it back in class. What had been zany was letting his dog fuck mine. I bred her for the money her pedigree pups brought in. I found, though, that the lines for Jim Causey’s poodle were as good as Starbright’s own, so I wasn’t fucked there, if the breeding had taken. I’d saved a stud fee.

I thought briefly that I should have paid Cal a stud fee because he had taken care of me so well. I almost regretted that he was one-night-stand material.